Dad
I read the letter two more times before handing it to Maddie and grabbing my phone from my purse to pull up my banking app and log in. My father is the executor of the trust fund my grandfather left for me. He’s the cosigner on my account until I turn twenty-five. Until then, I have a limit on how much I’m allowed to access each month.
On my twenty-fifth birthday, the entire account belongs to me with no strings attached. In my grandfather’s will, he said this was so I wouldn’t decide to give away all his hard-earned money to the homeless dogs of Philadelphia before I was old enough to realize what other good it could do for me and the world.
He told me to think bigger.
He knew me too well.
I guess there really won’t be a need for big thoughts after all, because I’m looking at an account with a big fat zero balance in it where there used to be seven figures.
Maddie reaches up and wipes the tear from my cheek before I even realize that I’m crying.
“I don’t have a home. He sold the house I grew up in. And he didn’t even tell me. Didn’t warn me. He didn’t let me clean out my room.” My voice grows progressively quieter with each word. “He sold the team without warning me, so why should I be surprised he’s selling the house without saying a word?”
Dixon wraps a big arm around me and holds me against his chest. “You’ll always have a home, D. This is your home for as long as you want.” His big, callused hand rubs circles on my back like only a big brother could. But instead of a calming effect, a hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat.
When I can’t contain it anymore, I step back and hold up my phone. “He emptied out my trust fund. He stole the money. What kind of trouble could he have gotten into that would make it okay to steal from his daughter? It’s all gone. Every last penny.” Dixon wipes a tear from my cheek. “I would have given it to him, if he’d just asked.”
“Do you want to file a police report?” Dix asks as gently as he can.
I stare at him in horror. “No. No police. No one needs to know any of this.”
“Do you want to go through the box?” Maddie’s in fix-it mode. She’s good at not getting overly emotional. “Maybe you’ll get some answers.” She holds the top open, and I glance inside. It’s a bunch of frames.
My fingers slide over pictures of my family that once sat on beautiful white shelves in my childhood bedroom.
That’s it.
That’s what he’s reduced my childhood memories to.
A few pictures.
I had a closet full of old hatboxes brimming with memories.
Photographs.
Keepsakes.
Journals.
Things that meant too much to bring them with me to college when I knew they were safer at home. Things I’ll never be able to replace because they were invaluable to me.
And now they’re gone.
And so is my dad.